


A Curious Fleet

by chelonianmobile



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Crack Relationships, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelonianmobile/pseuds/chelonianmobile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i.e. a lot of weird ships. Suggestions welcome, hatemail not so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Piknim/Craklyn

The mist was thick, and the moisture made her old bones ache. She had thought that would stop now. Perhaps she had to get past the gate first. She hoped she could find it soon. The path beneath her footpaws was smooth going, broad enough to admit an army, and that was odd as a path this wide should be exposed to the sun, but there was no sun here, only the mists and the trees. Step by slow step, Craklyn made her way forward, the walking stick in her paw from habit more than anything, same as her glasses; even with them she could see nothing in this land of fog.

Soon, perhaps seconds or centuries later, the gates gleamed before her, as she had known they would. The darkness within was that of a soothing misty evening, pleasantly cool, shadowed enough for any small creature to feel secure, though no predators could stalk them there. Night-blooming flowers filled the breeze as the gates eased open, welcoming her... or, as she saw, letting another beast out. She stopped.

Piknim. It was Piknim, young and fair as the day she died, clothed in shadow-green and a honeysuckle crown. Craklyn's back had bent over the seasons; she was the same height she herself had been on that day now, just right to meet Piknim's eyes.

Adolescent foolishness, harmless but foolish nonetheless they'd called it, and perhaps it had been at the time. Perhaps it could have been more, enough to be taken seriously by the adults, if it had a chance. Craklyn didn't know. She did know she had never stopped missing Piknim, had never felt the same way again. She had wondered how she would feel when this moment came, and now she was looking at the little mousemaid she felt very, very old, and dirty. What gave her the right, why would perfect Piknim want her back now? She looked away, and looked back again as dainty paws took her wrinkled ones.

Piknim kissed her, and drew her towards the gate, and with each step Craklyn felt her seasons fall away.


	2. Shard/Freeta

Promotion was not living up to Shard's expectations. Angrily, he wiped droplets of water from his headfur and let his tongue hang out, hoping to ease the discomfort of the sticky-hot room, and hacked with more force than necessary at the carrots beneath his knife. Freeta shook her own head and tipped the contents of her freshly boiled kettle into the funnel, where it hissed into the long copper pipes between the vegetable beds. The myriad tiny diamonds of glass in the ceiling and windows focused the weak sunlight and the steam filling the air made the room feel like the inside of a boiling pot, warm enough that no frost formed on the outsides of the windows. He scooped the chopped vegetables into the basin, and Freeta held the door for him.

The room next door was, if anything, even hotter, but at least it was dry. The foxes' fur steamed, and they shook themselves, then let the heavy basin drop to the floor with a loud thunk. The head of the tiny tortoise, which had peeked out when it heard the door opening, shrank back into its shell, and Shard restrained himself from kicking it, not wanting either a broken footpaw or an angry wolverine to walk in. Freeta wrapped thick cloths around her paws and knelt to rearrange the rocks, moving cooler ones towards the charcoal-burning braziers. Shard eyed the fur and straw padding nailed up on the walls for insulation.

"Tell me, might a fire be accidentally started here? The room is stone, but with no windows 'twould drink up all the air quite rapidly..."

"I would try not to," Freeta said, stretching and cracking her knuckles. "'Tisn't worth it. If we can't be trusted with the Stone, we shan't be trusted at all." She tipped the basin onto its side, letting the vegetables spill out, and waved a lettuce leaf in front of the tortoise's nose. "Come on, little Stone, eat up and get fat and mayhap then thou'll realise what a trial it is to be in this heat."

Shard chuckled, and coughed as his dry throat stung. "I will never know how a wolverine can stand it, their fur's thicker than ours... No matter, love," he whispered, smiling wickedly as he helped her up. "We shall get the Stone fat and one day, I promise, we'll stew him in his own shell."

Freeta entwined her tail with his. "Of course we shall."


	3. Cluny/Sela

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note I will not be held responsible if you repeat any of these phrases in front of a Portuguese speaker.

"I'm sorry, my lord, this is going to hurt whatever I do."

"Just get on with it." Cluny lay on his front, his prized tail protruding from the blankets and resting in Sela's paws. It was setting crooked; she had to fix it or it would be useless as a weapon.

"Yes, lord," Sela said with a nervous nod, and gripped tightly.

Cluny remained unmoved until she yanked suddenly and the bone clicked back into place; he tensed and hissed _"Monte de merda!"_

Sela blinked. "Eh?"

"Oh, it's a language from overseas, I spent a lot of time there," Cluny said, shrugging. He chuckled, and Sela caught the tiny hint of nostalgia the rat himself hadn't noticed in his voice.

"It sounds very melodic, my lord," she said sweetly, applying a pawful of herbal paste to the swollen point on his tail and rubbing as gently as she could. "Though I imagine that wasn't a phrase I'd like my cub to repeat. Other languages always interested me, but I fear I'm terrible at them."

Cluny chuckled again. Never missed an opportunity, did she? "I don't care for that stuff usually, but I'd say you're right, _bardajona."_

"Oh my." Sela fanned herself with a paw, grinning behind it. Was it going to be this easy? Surely not...

"You like it?" Cluny hid his own smile and let his voice grow lower, softer. "I can speak like this all day, _babaca,_ if you want."

"Oh _my,_ please do," Sela purred, her paws straying to Cluny's back and kneading the hard muscle. Even though she suspected what he was actually saying wasn't as flattering as it sounded, it really was quite pleasant to listen to.

 _"Puta que pariu esta merda,_ how could I say no to that? A charmingly _estólido_ request from a lady as charming as _cona da tua mae."_

Sela bit her lip and felt her face grow warm. Cluny reached up, pulled her closer, stared her in the eye, and hoarsely whispered _"Chupa me gaita e va ao inferno, abestalhado puta pra caralho."_

Sela pulled free, licking her lips, and mumbled "I must go." She scurried out of the tent, and Cluny waited for her to be gone before stuffing the blanket corner in his mouth to stifle his immature laughter.

Sela paused outside the tent and pressed one ear to the canvas. The noise was muffled, but yes, that was laughter. She knew it. From the start she'd been suspicious and when she'd recognised the word "inferno" that had all but confirmed it, and there she'd been only half pretending to be mesmerised... She couldn't help it, she started snickering herself, and soon lost control and burst into cackles.

Cluny heard the laughter outside, and laughed even harder himself.


	4. Nagru/Silvamord

Three days a year Nagru and Silvamord make a truce. The rats know it's coming when her scent begins to change and she walks with her tail stiff; Nagru is less vicious to her, yet more tense. They avoid eye contact all evening as they eat their fill, then lock themselves in Silvamord's chamber and nothing more is seen of them. Plenty is heard, though. Sicant describes them as sounding like a nest of fledgling crows dropped in a pike lake, and the rats howl with laughter.

When it's over, the foxes leave the room, again not making eye contact. Nagru resumes his usual behaviour, and, as she did last year and the year before that, Silvamord waits, and waits, and waits. The rats see her plucking at her belt, tying and retying it, hoping she will feel it getting tighter; she picks at her chestfur and it comes out with no more ease than usual. On the forty-eighth day of nothing, Sicant overhears her weeping. Nagru, on the other hand, seems relieved.

There are no other foxes in Floret, and whether this is good or bad is unsure. Silvamord is jealous enough when a female ratguard starts bloating up out of her chainmail; one wrong word and the poor rat has to flee as Silvamord aims a thrown bottle at her vulnerable belly. On the other paw, if other foxes were around the royal couple could at least find out which one of them has the problem.

Silvamord stares venomously at the little prince and his doting nurse and mother. Nagru, when he sees neither she nor the rats nor the prisoners will notice, gives her a very brief glance of irritated sympathy. Little as he wants competition, getting her wish would at least give him some peace.


End file.
